Nightjarring

NW Kent, June 2014

I am alone in a forest clearing at dusk. It is quite plausible to think there is no one else around for a mile in either direction; it could even be that the blinking lights of the slowly groaning planes streaking over head are the closest thing I have to human company at this point.

But there are signs of a presence here. Across the clearing in front of me are the stubby shoulder-height tufts of coppiced sweet chestnut trees and, in the corner, a pile of machinery waits quietly next to the coppiced trees latest incarnation – a neat stack of sharpened fence posts. This is a working forest like many used to be. It partly explains why I’m here now.

From my vantage point in the middle of the large clearing I can see the line of trees, living and already fence-like, encircling me. Or rather I can pick them out against the sky - a ghostly shade of blue and dimming quickly. There is no wind to distort the scene and so a dusk chorus, that overlooked lament, resounds with the same fervour of a dawn. A bold, shrieking song thrush nearby is the undisputed winner and has its song echoed by another some distance away. Robin and Blackbird chime in too. High overhead, unseen, a party of swallows chatter by like late-night revellers. Otherwise the only sound I can discern is the occasional patter of moths as they flick against my jacket. I don’t know why they’re doing that.

And then in the half light, I spot some movement to my left. Silently, a smallish, long-winged shape glides from one of those chestnut stools and descends effortlessly to the ground, out of sight (and out of sheer chance) only 20 metres away. Though a fleeting glimpse, there is enough light to make out some subtler features of the bird, chiefly its mottled colouring and distinct shape.

Then it starts, a sort of gurgling sound, like a small engine ticking over. For a second I can’t work out if it is a sound carrying from miles away, but then I realise I am very close and this is akin to listening to a warm up behind closed doors. After several minutes there is a further flurry of movement – there are two birds – but I can only follow the path of one as it glides off towards the trees on the far side.

“Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr”

Over the next 20 minutes the sound continues, at first like a door creaking open, then an unearthly hum. It moves around invisibly in the near-darkness and reveals two males sparring from different sides of the vast clearing. I can see the silhouette of one perched in a tree some distance away. Then, I have a strange feeling that something has brushed past me or that there is something near me, I’m largely helpless to determine what, until I glance up and stare straight at the outline of a Nightjar hovering just feet from my face. It is an incredible moment and I sort of gulp with equal parts surprise and delight. There is a moment as it moves and whatever pale light is left flicks across, illuminating it - and I think it’s something I won’t forget for a long time.

Read about this fascinating bird here

Nightjaaaaaar! 3/6/13

Some footage of a churring male Nightjar in NW Kent on Monday evening:

I've made several trips this week with this species in mind. It was fantastic to track this individual down at a site I've heard has been less productive in recent years. It took some patience to find the spot but on my second visit I'd worked it out and spent an hour watching and listening to one of our most unusual and elusive migrant birds.

At first there was just the sound, that unmistakeable loud chuurrring cutting though the trees, then...silence. But soon enough, from my position at the edge of a clearing of a commercial forestry site, a dark shape, bolted into a nearby tree and the sound resumed. It perched in the open for a while on a dead branch, sometimes swooping off to catch a moth or some other nocturnal insect with a rapid movement of long, pointed wings. Several times it flew off and began again elsewhere but it came back on its loop to its favoured branch in a blink a you'd miss it fashion.

Being largely crepuscular (I love that word), this bird occupies an odd fragment of the day, the hours as dusk descends and dawn breaks, often the hollow between. Like clockwork, each night this bird began churring at around 9.35pm and carried on until 10.10pm when it paused. I even tried the 'hankerchief' trick but only succeeded in cracking myself up. Those superb early views soon became silhouettes, which soon became just whirring noises in a still night.

It's not too often I find myself in the woods after dark, maybe I should do it more often. Here there was a chance to admire other secretive species too - a roding Woodcock squeaking overhead and bats along the woodland edge. Even little things grabbed my attention, like the trees creaking and a Robin's half-song that pierced it all.

A stirring experience and an amazing bird, one of the highlights of the year so far.

Active forestry work helps create Nightjar habitat like this: large clearings with a mix of young-growth scrub, bare areas and  mature trees

Pines at dusk

Nightjar (Caprimulgus europaeus), Kent, June 2013